


every breaking wave.

by Icanwritesee



Series: anisotropy. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is Not Okay, trigger warning: drug use, trigger warning: overdosing, trigger warning: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: he provides me with the substance that's able to bury deep inside of me all the longing I seem to drown in.I don't give a particular fuck about all the rest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [give me some time.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263309) by [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee). 



> hello again, Stranger!
> 
> as you can see, this is another part of Sherlock and John's love story. fair warning: it's really angsty. like, really dark. the pov once again shifts between the boys, but mostly it's from Sherlock's perspective, and it's mostly about how Sherlock dealt with John going away to become a doctor, and you probably can tell he didn't, hence the tags and warnings. if it's too dark for you, you can easily skip it and wait for the more okay parts, I won't be mad :)  
> my deepest bows towards my beta, modjohnlock.  
> ALSO: I'm using the titles of U2's songs because I love U2. all the mottos for the chapters are from Zbigniew Herbert's probably most famous poems, The Envoy of Mr. Cogito & Report From The Besieged City respectively, and I highly encourage you to check out his work, it's really enlightning.

 

> _be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go  
>  _

  
John. the only name in the world worth remembering. John. I knew it couldn't last forever. I simply knew it.  
_johnjohnjohn._ doesn't matter how many times I repeated the name, it didn't stop the pain. my good, wonderful and patient John left. he left me all alone. and I would rather for my mind palace didn't have the whole wing dedicated to all John-related information. that way I would have stand some chance of forgetting his parting words.  
  
_you won't even start to miss me before I'm back._

I beg to differ, John.  
I sighed, releasing the heavy breath, and taking another drag of the cigarette I was smoking. I lost the count, really. the smoke from my mouth moved towards the cracked ceiling. the rest of the heroin song was still present in my veins from my last dose. I would have to think about the next one very soon to be able to sleep for two hours or so without intrusiveness of memories.  
John doesn't resist. he's half of the world away anyway.

*

I look around me and all I can see are his eyes. his hair. his smile. my ears pick up the particular way he says my name. and all of this is surrounded by all this fucking stuff that belonged to him: idiotic paperback criminal novels that say everything about the author instead of his characters. clothes that still smell of his usual-unusual aftershave. any papers he had a habit of clustering.

I'm laying down and leaving in turns the bed we used to share for all these nights, and when I really focus, I can almost feel his presence in it. even the Sun comes out from behind the clouds.  
every day is exactly the same as the previous ones.  
how could I not use the first chance of forgetting about everything, my own name included?

*  
   
I'm not the same person I used to be before. I'm more like an exposed nerve that shoots with pain at the lightest touch of the outside world. that's why I don't risk contacting such a world. just in case.  
  
*

that relationship was utopian anyway; too perfect to be real. John was too perfect. and I was always the weirdo hated by anyone within seeing distance. no wonder John left someone like me for the army. wonderful John. I was never good enough for him anyway. now he can at least find someone better.  
that last thought sends a sharp pang of pain through my numb heart.  
I wouldn't take seeing John with another.

*

the history of my relation with heroin wouldn't be complete without the character of Jim Moriarty. my first thought at meeting him all those months ago didn't change, actually. I still think he's an emotionally disturbed person with sadistic inclinations and an irritating tendency to use an atypically high tone of voice, but from some time past, he's also my dealer. he provides me with the substance that's able to bury deep inside of me all the longing I seem to drown in.

I don't give a particular fuck about all the rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the first time in my life, I was experiencing the feeling of being equal, and I wouldn't change it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which John begins to feel he's found another home besides Sherlock. 
> 
> I've taken quite a bit of liberty with British army rules, please ignore my ignorance. I used too little of genuine research mixed with too much of a creative licence ;x

> _repeat great words repeat them stubbornly_

 

  
I was woken up around four in the morning by orders shouted by corporal Myers; that was my routine for the last six months. I adapted to it, just like I did with the appearance of my second name in my documents. they say that one is able to adapt to almost every possible circumstance, which proved to be true in my case - I acclimatized to waking up before sunrise, two hour long drills in full equipment long before having a bland breakfast. if I were to remove the first two factors, I would have to admit that _I felt good_. for the first time in my life, I was experiencing the feeling of being equal, and I wouldn't change it.

*

the day was shaping up to be unusually lousy. I began it with crawling through mud created by an extremely rainy night even for England. after the meal my schedule was filled with shooting training, the one thing I liked; reminded me of my favorite Bond movies. and let's be honest with each other, everyone looks good with gun. I felt a bit taller myself. my constant fantasy was an absurd vision, in which I was wearing fur taken from an enormous brown bear I killed myself. of course, it made me look so masculine I could practically chew crushed glass. I always wondered what would Sherlock say if I would turn up on our doorstep wearing fur; and it's easy for me to see that scene in my mind - his face, and all the things he would shout. I would have to ask him one day.

on that specific day I didn't feel masculine at the shooting range, more like a prey. one of the guys, Alastair, a man with an exceptionally thick Scottish accent, missed my femoral artery by millimeters.

an unsuccessful morning quickly turned into a tiring forenoon, when the time came for the commonly hated statute classes with commonly disliked corporal Myers. the three hour long lecture was a truly painful ordeal, and I'd love to exchange it for another long march.

the rest of my Friday was usually dedicated to learning to tend to the wounded and operating in the conditions imitating those in the warzone. I was a bit erratic at this yet, but I did my best to fulfill my plan of helping people. it almost makes me sound like some good Samaritan, doesn't it? I don't mind it very much if it does, actually.  
I was practically buzzing with impatience to see my loved one after finishing my shift in around 10 minutes. he was waiting for me, and the longing that tears me to pieces will finally shut up for a bit.

*

the sight of his face alone was enough to clean my mind off of the memories of a wretched day. such an amount of sharp angles paired with any other physic wouldn't look as attractive as it did on Sherlock. I couldn't stop the smile spreading my lips when I saw the spark appearing in his eyes, and my heart started to hammer in my chest.

_God, he's so beautiful._

he was quiet for a few seconds. "John."  
Sherlock's baritone was the most erotic sounds in the Universe, together with all his sighs, murmurs and moans. I was a devoted fan of the latter myself.

"hey.", I said. "it's good to see you. but you could take a break from work from time to time, it wouldn't kill you, you know."

the only answer I got was a dismissive eyeroll. "do you even eat at all?"  
"Greg said exactly the same thing no longer than an hour ago.", he made a gesture that could easily be interpreted as anything between 'leave it, honestly' and 'humanity is so uninventive but not me I'm so above it'.  
"you talked with Greg? did he get my letter?"  
Sherlock nodded, slightly shaking his dark locks with the movement. he looked haggard even in a poor light of our lamp, like he was often refraining from eating and sleeping. which is probably what he was doing.

"eat something, please.", I said softly at last. "you look like a worse copy of yourself."  
the earphones sighed; my boyfriend was bored.  
"I told you, eating slows me down."  
"please? for me?", I drew nearer to the monitor and flashed my shiniest smile at him that helped me win every argument.  
"fine. cold Chinese okay?"  
"even the Swedish pickled herring would be fine, love.", I smiled, pleased with myself. I watched him rising up from his place on our couch and leaving my Skype window for a bit. he went to grab the food, no doubt. and sure enough, not a minute or so later, he came back with a carton of Chinese takeaway in his hand, and started chewing in an exaggerated manner, looking me straight in the eye. or at least in a place where my eyes would be if it wasn't for the 200 kilometers separating us.

"are you going to tell me about your awful day, anyway? or is that one of these things I as a concerned boyfriend shouldn't ask you about?"  
"wait, how did you...?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "John?"  
"yes?"  
"I know that's a sentiment telling me to ask that question, and I really hate myself for that fact alone, but... are you going to get a pass for Christmas?"  
I felt my heart drop.  
"I'd love to, baby. you know it. but I don't think they let me go home for Christmas."  
his lips formed in a line. "I guess I would have to get used to you being far from home.  
"I'll make it up to you, swear."  
"no need to."

the silence after was full of tension, and he put the food down. his eyes no longer shone like before.  
I could've done more to get the pass. I should've. "listen..."  
"go to sleep, John.", his voice was so flat it broke my heart into pieces. "you have to be up in two hours."  
"y-yes, I'll better go."  
"John?"  
"yes?"  
"I love you. please look after yourself better. and please tell that Neanderthal with the issue of shooting impasse targets that he should expect a little chat with me the next time he's in London."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John didn't leave because he wanted to punish you, Sherlock."
> 
> that was too much.
> 
> "so why is he not here now?! why did he leave at all?!"  
> I stood up so rapidly it made the whole room spin. or I was the one that spun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> funny. before last night I thought no one would _need_ this thing because of what was supposed to happen would happen, but now I feel that _I_ need it. I need fic that makes more sense then that fakeness they left us with.  
>  never expect white dudes to have your back.
> 
> with that said, this is the most graphic chapter I've ever written, and the most angsty one. though it doesn't feature violence, it's _very_ heavy for the soul. it's perfectly okay if you feel like you need to skip this one over. 
> 
> 'til the next time. and remember, we're right.

 

> _when the mind deceives you be courageous_

 

there was an awful bitter aftertaste inside my mouth when I managed to fully come to my senses. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. my looks aren't the thing I'm bothering myself much with when I'm home, but this time I felt some sort of prickling in the general area of my conscience. "that was the last time you took meds, Holmes."

I was in a way glad John wasn't there to see my miserable face. I don't know how I would be able to function after seeing his disappointment at my state. I was still cherishing the illusion that he wouldn't leave me when he finds out about everything I did when he was away, but I slowly stopped kidding myself.

I frowned at the sound of my phone. Jim.

"Sherly, I've got a great stuff, just for you...", he greeted me with a voice that would be seductive in a nightclub, but for me sounded more like a hiss of a cobra readying itself for attack.  
"I don't care about your 'great stuff', Jim. I was unconscious for 12 hours after the previous one."  
"but that's what you wanted, darling!", he added another portion of sweetness to the mix. I was beginning to feel sick. "you don't want to think about how your pretty Johnny handles living in barracks, surrounded by all those lonely men, with his hair just perfect to grab..."

I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, trying to keep the nausea at bay.  
"and how will your lover boy react when he finds out how you spend your time far from him?! he's going to be so angry at you, Sherly!..."

that was enough for me; I hung up and got properly sick. what a nit.

* 

Major Walker's office was the last one in the long, brightly lit corridor. I was meant to report to him after the preservation of the environment class. I was surprised myself to find out they were teaching these things in the army.

intrigued, I knocked shortly, and went inside after hearing brief "enter" in answer.  
"you wanted to see me, sir?", I asked. Walker rose his eyes from the stack of the documents that were gluing him to his desk. he had the honest face of a man who was doing his best to go through with his duties.  
"Watson, yes. at ease, we need to talk."

I relaxed a bit and planted my feet on the width of my shoulders, waiting for the Major to continue. "how does your service in the Christmas season look like, Watson?"  
"I'm on a duty in the hospital on Christmas Eve, just like on the first and second day of Christmas, sir."

"all your shifts will be taken by McLendon, maybe he'll finally learn to stitch without all that nonsense shaking."  
"but... sir? I don't understand..."  
"I got a phone with a very clear announcement from the very high earler today, Watson. the announcement was as follows: 'John Watson is to receive a pass for Christmas.' I'm not crazy enough to object a direct order, so if you'll let me, I'll give you a pass, Watson."

I was in shock. and I heard a noise in my ears.

_I'm seeing him in two days._

Major's voice brought me back to reality. "Watson, I don't need a flycatcher here at the moment, but I'll inform you if anything changes."  
"yes... sir."  
"you are to report back at 500 in the morning on Saturday, two days after Christmas, or else I'll personally rid your arse cheeks of the access to your legs. is that clear?"  
"cristal, sir."  
"march off then, private Watson."

leaving Major Walker's little office, I decided to write a list of Christmas presents; a list I haven't thought of yet besides one present - an enlarged package of the elder Holmes brother's favourite chocolate fudge.

* 

_John would be so disappointed in you, Holmes._

_good then he can't see me now, right?_

_how would I know? it may as well mean he already has someone new. someone better than you, Holmes._

_John's not like that. he wouldn't do it._

_that's precisely the same what you thought Victor wouldn't do, and how did it end?_

_go to Hell._

* 

my brother entered our living room like it was his own.  
"leave me alone, Mycroft!", I said sulkily. I must've been really unconvincing because he sat down in my chair with the same arrogance.  
"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea if you have one.", he said airily, unbothered by my anger. he looked around himself.  
"why don't you call one of your minions to fetch a cuppa for the master?"

one corner of his lips lifted minutely, but he didn't answer. instead, he fixed his eyes on me. "what do you want?"  
I really wasn't in a mood for talking. "it has come to my attention that lately... how does one say it... you've heavily indulged yourself..."  
"'come to your attention'? oh please. you meant to say that your servants eagerly followed every step I took since I became alone."  
"fine.", he rolled his eyes. "either way, I found out how your everyday life looks like now. and why you haven't attended classes for weeks now."  
"if you came here to lecture me, then really, don't waste your breath."  
"I came because I wanted to say that when you're ready to decide if I can help you, I will do it."

"I don't need your help, Mycroft. and kindly fuck off before I lose my patience.", I showed him the door in case he didn't know where to go if he wanted to leave.  
"you don't look very good, brother."

I waved dismissively. the phone that was lying right above my heart was still quiet, nothing new there.  
I was so broken inside for the first time in my life, and Mycroft didn't bat an eye. why would he?  
"you know. you're not as bad as you think you are.", he said at last.  
"if I didn't know you don't have a sense of humour, I would've thought that was you making a joke right now, the mutual sharing of the existential pain."  
"John didn't leave because he wanted to punish you, Sherlock."

that was too much.

"so why is he not here now?! why did he leave at all?!"  
I stood up so rapidly it made the whole room spin. or I was the one that spun?

*

at least another two hours passed before I managed to eventually get rid of Mycroft. enough for me to satisfy my month needs with using the words beginning with 'm'.  
and there were ants running on the surface of my skin. battling myself, I chose the hateful number that belonged to my older brother.

*

the last couple of hours of waiting was filled with crazy thoughts running through my brain. I was positively furious that the train couldn't get any faster. no idea who I was sharing the compartment with; I looked through those people with unseeing eyes. when we finally got to King's Cross, I ran out of the train before anyone managed to rise from their seat. my stomach already confirmed what I already knew was true - _I'm going to be home with him_.

an elegant black car stopped just before me when I was looking for cabs, and the rear window revealed the one and only Mycroft Holmes. "always nice to see you, John. would you like to accompany me?"

I looked at him meaningfully, knowing that wasn't really a question.  
"I should really thank you for what you've done.", I said at last. Mycroft's governmental car slipped through the London traffic like a knife through the warm butter. the elder Holmes went tactfully quiet. "I know you may dislike me..."

"don't waste your time, John.", he said firmly at my mumbling. "I don't know what Sherlock told you about me, but knowing him, it wasn't very nice. doesn't matter. the point is, I respect you, John. you've a great deal of courage and intelligence above average, you're also painfully loyal and honest. and Sherlock's not the same person he was a year and a half ago, because of you. and that's more than I dared to dream for him. if I could help both of you in any way, know that I would."  
"...wow. I don't know what to say to that..."  
"I think 'thank you' would suffice, classic and always effective."  
"thank you, then. Mycroft?"  
"yes, John?"

"is all of that your own way of sending me a message that goes around: 'break his heart, and I'll bury you in an unmarked grave faster than you'll be able to say 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes'?"  
"good evening, John."

*

I felt the beating of my own heart in my ears, reaching towards our door with shaking hand. the door was open.

_I swear, one day they're going to steal everything we own._

I left my coat on the rack and the backpack by the door. our flat was dead silent. "Sherlock?"

nothing. a table armed with mugs of coffee with mould in different stages of growth surrounded with all the precious papers about the history of ballet that Sherlock was an expert on anyway. I touched my fingertip to his elegant writing, and realized that all the furniture was covered with a layer of dust. all except for the couch and the grey chair, like all his activity was restricted to those two places in the entire flat.  
the heavy silence was pierced by a moan full of pain; I pattered towards our bedroom, and felt like my legs would give out in seconds. the sight curdled blood in veins - Sherlock was laying on the floor by our bed, deathly pale, drenched with sweat and thrashing about. "what have you done?!"  
when the shudders subsided a bit, he looked at me with glassy eyes. his pupils were blown wide, and he seemed to be unable to move because it took him a good portion of a minute to show me the syringe. "what did you take?!"  
he couldn't answer me; his head limply fell away. "no, don't fall asleep! Sherlock, please stay with me!"  
I was shaking myself because he almost didn't breathe, and the only sounds I could hear were coming from him, were moans of pain. I shook him, but it didn't work - he already blacked out. I quickly called Mycroft. "come back here at once!", I shouted at the receiver. "he took something, I don't know what the fuck it was, he's unconscious... I'm beginning the CPR..."  
"I'm coming."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock, where are you?! I need you!", John called; his voice sounded less louder than earlier, like he was getting further away from me, and I shook with the sheer power of my fury, hate, fear, contempt, and - most of all - helplessness.
> 
> "you're going to love being here. we'll have lots of fun.", Moriarty smiled eerily.  
> "I'd rather die than voluntarily join your 'fun', Jim."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le mighty trip for y'all.  
> I should add another chunk of text somewhere around tomorrow or the day after? we'll see. this one's very dark, mind.

> _be faithful Go_

I flopped back on the chair, exhausted beyond measure. my nerves were strained, and I felt nauseous because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face crumpled with pain and wrapped in a paper thin skin. and I very much doubt I'll be able to make it disappear. Sherlock not being aware of everything; the thought alone is so unnatural I can't get used to it despite trying since the moment I found him in such a state.  
a person that notices every single detail and has an extraordinary skill of assembling those pieces into a bigger picture. someone who not only leaves a lasting impression, but sweeps one off one's feet. such a person suddenly deliberately decides to quieten such an extraordinary mind. nope, still can't believe it.

that's not how I imagined my first night being back home. not with him laying lifelessly in a hospital bed. in my vision he wasn't in the hospital fighting for his life.  
"go home, John.", said Mycroft from his place on the other side of Sherlock's bed. I shook my head violently before he even finished his sentence.  
"thanks, but I'm okay here."  
the silence stretched uncomfortably. 

"you're not in much of a hurry to get back to the world, huh?", I asked quietly more to myself than Sherlock, worried that he should've already woken up. he was at least breathing on his own, and not as horribly shallow as before.

"patience, John. all in good time."  
  
_well, he's the one to talk. he wasn't there when I found you._

"that's not easy for me at all."  
"I've managed to forget that the Holmes have the irritating habit of reading people's thoughts.", I sighed. Mycroft Holmes' lips did some weird grimace that people in some circles probably called a smile. I was finishing my coffee. Sherlock was still asleep. no one said a word.

*

I opened my eyes. I was in a well-known area of our bedroom, lying on my side of the bed. I did it out of habit for months, even though I didn't have to really worry about taking up John's place. only, this time I wasn't on my own - I was accompanied by the last person I wanted to see in my bed: Jim Moriarty. the sheets burned my skin, and I started in shock, wanting to separate myself from the psychotic man. because he looked like any other psychopath shifting around the world without any control; dressed in a tailor-made black suit from Vivienne Westwood's collection, and even the pillow was unable to disturb his perfectly tamed hair. but the bottomless eyes of his were truly distressing; he consumed my face with a creepy smile.

"I was getting bored waiting for you to wake up, princess Sherly.", he chanted; I cringed at the sound of hateful diminutive he always used. "welcome, welcoooome..."  
"what do you want from me, Jim?", I sighed. "if you're here to offer me another mindblowing stuff, then my heart pains to disappoint because I'd rather my mind stays in its original state for an indefinite future."  
"don't be such a spoilsport, Sherly!"

something turned in my stomach; Moriarty expanded comfortably on the bed in John's place, crossing his ankles with satisfaction. the whole situation was wrong on so many levels I had to leave. and I had to breathe to calm myself enough not to break his nose and a few of the closest bones.

the door handle didn't give way when I pressed.  
"ohh, it's locked? so sad!..."  
"fuck you, Jim."  
"I'm not the biggest fan of handiwork, if you get my meaning. I've always preferred coed group work.", he answered, emotionlessly inspecting his nails. "you know, I used to think you were just like me when it comes to these things, but our mutual friend shattered my hopes with saucy details. he told me a story about virgin Sherlock, and I must admit, it was like watching an amateur porn."  
"who is our mutual friend?"  
"ah ah ah! what kind of a surprise was it if I told you, darling?"

I made a face, and was meant to answer him when I heard John's voice calling my name from the distance. "John?!", I shouted, frantically tugging at the handle. "I'm in the bedroom, John!"  
"Sherlock?"  
"John, I'm coming!", I looked around and noticed the lamp standing in the corner of the room. hurried to grab it, but it was way too heavy to lift. Jim smiled nastily  at my fruitless efforts of breaking the damn door down. "if you really think I'm going to let you go that easily, your aunt hazel must've eaten way more of your brain than I thought it did.", he said at length, wiping off the heel of his shoe in John's sheet. he reminded me of a hungry cat observing a bird with a broken wing.  
"Sherlock, where are you?! I need you!", John called; his voice sounded less louder than earlier, like he was getting further away from me, and I shook with the sheer power of my fury, hate, fear, contempt, and - most of all - helplessness.

"you're going to love being here. we'll have lots of fun.", Moriarty smiled eerily.  
"I'd rather die than voluntarily john your 'fun', Jim."

luckily, I had the habit of bringing all sorts of things to my room; things that John called weird. there was a time when I brought an axe for an experiment I wanted to conduct involving a dead pig and sulfuric acid. by a blind chance, John never found out about the place I left the axe in, which was under our bed; he would've sent me to Hell if he did. I would've had only heroin left then.

when I was in the middle of axing the door, the bedroom suddenly filled with cries of pain that Moriarty had to be the source of. ignoring his yells (and him tugging at my shirt's sleeves), I continued my work, still calling John between the hits. he finally heard me and came, smiled at me with visible relief, and took the axe away with a kiss to my forehead.

that's when I woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
